


love, the breaking of your soul upon my lips

by coriane



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Sith Reader (Star Wars), Unreliable Narrator, who knows reader may or may not be losing it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coriane/pseuds/coriane
Summary: It calls to you, still. That great, terrible power: sweet like water, thick as nectar.Children whose minds are open to the Force require proper instruction, for the safety of themselves and those around them. In exchange for your own vengeance, you teach the Mandalorian's kid how to use the Force. Or perhaps, it's the other way around.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	love, the breaking of your soul upon my lips

**Author's Note:**

> to be completely real with yall, i haven't been in this fandom in a long time. there might be some discrepancy between use of the force here with canon. when it happens, please point it out and educate me (pls be nice)
> 
> background info before we get started:  
> -your mom was a sith  
> -yeah, honestly that's it
> 
> oh also, comments make me super happy, feel free to leave one if you enjoy :)

love,  
the breaking  
  
of your  
soul  
upon  
my lips

_e. e. cummings_

x

You can still feel her presence, sometimes. In the mirror, behind you, on the opposite side of the dining table. Waiting, whispering, beckoning. Some days, it's more your mind, others you think that it's possible she may actually be there.

They say in order to become one with the Force, one must be at peace when they die ( _ash and brimstone, hellfire and falling stars, the screams, and most of all:_ ** _her rage_** ). But as you've learned in your life, never underestimate your mother, and never underestimate the resolve of the Sith.

Some days, you think that she lives on through pure spite. Other days, you think that the only reason that the ghost of her remains is because it is you who cannot let her go.

 _Come here, my sweet child_ , she says, in your dreams, dark-haired and faceless. _Come back_. That's all she says, if you're lucky. Other times, it returns to the ramblings of a power-hungry megalomaniac, and sometimes, it's tender and a warm rasp, the taste of tea and a flickering of flames. You were not born from her, but she was the closest thing you had. 

And you swore, when Jude died, that you would never become her. That the dream of restoring the Empire and the Sith to its glory would die with her, the last remaining pillar of strength remnant from Sidious' and Vader's reign.

But, with time, the pain of Jude's death erodes and distills in a way your mother's ghost never does.

In a way the Force never does. It calls to you. The siren's, call, the lure. That _great, terrible power_ : sweet like water, thick as nectar. As you sleep, as you wake, stuck to your skin like a layer of spring's dew and the relentless heat of summer.

Like the black sea, the light like rusted gold. Warm to the touch, wrapping around your ankle. Retreating only to come back stronger. And stronger, until the tide swallows you whole.

 _My sweet, sweet child_ , the wind coos. And in that variegated, shattered imitation of the suns in the water, you look down and it's your mother's face that stares back. Her smile warped, splitting from check to cheek, cutting her face apart.

x

The first time you meet the Mandalorian, the Empire has fallen and your mother is two years dead.

Tatooine is cold in the night, and a cesspit on its best days. You've been here for five, and you're beginning to get frustrated.

Yen had always been one of the smart ones. Well, you all were— In that place of death and violence, you either get good, or you get killed. But Yen was always a little bit worse than the rest of you, his connection with the Force one of the weakest in the group, but he made up for it.

He was cold and cunning and ambitious. You and the others sank your teeth and fingers into their flesh, their dreams. Wrapped ivies around their skulls and that butterfly cranium until it moulded the bone to the shape you wanted. You broke apart the world to get what you wanted.

Yen wasn't strong enough to do that. He left threads and lures, seeded thistles and canker blossoms.A shadow in the peripheral, lurking, watching. Roots of a yew tree. He always fancied himself a master crafter, cutting and shaping and bending. Whittling it down piece by piece, edge by edge. One day someone will wake up and realize that their mind is no longer their own, or perhaps one day eyes will open and there won't be anyone left behind them.

He worked slow, much to everyone's ire. But there was never any complaint when he was done.

And in the years since he's fled, he's had more than enough time to craft the world to his vision. There are empty eyes, Force signatures that are drained, devoid of colour.

 _You should've come for him first_ , you think, idly. Not out of pity, but because now, hunting him has become harder.

The crowd parts for him in a way not unlike it would've for you, only a couple of years ago. On Tatooine, one learns to sense danger like a blind man in the dark. Huh, it seems that the Force is in your favour today. All the good that'll do.

When he sees you, his entire body seemed to freeze. He stands there, looking at you. The slits of the helmet dark, the metal of his armour bright beneath the harsh light. His Force is signature is little like that. Cold steel and warm leather, the coarse stone and warm sunlight.

You lift your hood just enough for him to see your smile. And then you turn.

He follows.

The paths here are familiar to you. Winding and sandy and warm. The Hutt's have always enjoyed an alliance with the Empire, and it's likely Yen came here because he thought he'd receive backing, especially with the cartel's decline after the war.

The Mandalorian catches up with you no sooner after you enter an alley without anyone present.

A hand on your shoulder, grip hard enough to prevent your escape. He's a large man, powerfully built. It'll be a difficult fight if negotiations fall through.

"Who are you?" he asks, his voice scraping against the silence.

Your shoulder twinges. You fight the wince, you can't afford to be weak now. "That's now important. You're hunting a man named Yen."

His grip tightens. "I'm going to ask you again: who. Are. You?"

You roll your eyes and give him your name.

"That doesn't answer my question."

You laugh, and wrap your hand around his wrist, yanking his grasp off your shoulder with the Force. "Former Sith, currently on an epic quest for revenge. I want Yen."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"I'm not strong enough to fight through his hoard of puppets, and you can't find him." You can't make it any simpler.

Silence. You can't tell if he's genuinely considering your offer or trying to figure out whether or not he's going to kill you. The quiet goes on, enough that even the air is silent. It's a little bit like the silence of the past: heavy in a ceremonial sort of way, like standing on the knife's edge — never knowing whether or not you earned rage or praise.Unconsciously, your instincts prepare you for a fight.

"I work alone." Well.

That's anti-climatic. Still, it's to be expected. You anticipated this, and you've made back-ups and contingencies for contingencies. Though, for this, you don't think you'll need it. Your talent never lied in precognition, but... The Force has never led you wrong, and while you do not need his conscious cooperation—

 _No_. You wouldn't. You wouldn't take his mind from him, you wouldn't be like your mother, you swore. You'll make do, even if it's without him.

"Well," you say, turning to go. A feeling inside of you welling up, the complete assurance that he would come find you, eventually. "Have it your way, then."

The Force, be it good or bad, Light or Dark, has never been wrong.

x

A fortnight later, there's a knock on your door. There's that whisper of steel. Just as you're about to go out of your mind wondering whether or not he'll show up.

You open the door, and, well.

There he is.

He takes one, two steps into the room. Right in front of you.

In that moment, you feel a strange sense of kinship to him, this faceless stranger before you. Made of steel and metal and bound by tradition and the ghost of the past. You know him only by his body and the feel of his Force signature.

"What do you want?" he grunts.

You don't have to ask what means. "I want to be the one to do it."

You needed to be the one to do it, for it to be real.

You mother had something like that. A bestial, barbaric tradition she does with all her kills. Slicing them apart, piece by piece. She took pleasure in every painful, excruciating moment of it.

You don't quite have her taste in pain, or anything else, really. But you are alike to her just enough to always be similar, to always be reminded of her. No matter what you do.

_My sweet, sweet child._

You push her away, until you can no longer hear her voice, feel the phantom touch of her hand on your face. The burn of her flames.

Inside of you, though. The Force sings.


End file.
